When the man dropped his shirt
as he was leaving the beach with girl and beer,

he couldn’t have imagined what I would do
with this rag. Little house, soft labyrinth.

Tent, cloud monkey. Playing card
without number, sign, or face —

played on the table of my beach,
because he who makes of what he finds

dreamt belonging becomes the sole owner,
the one who sets traps for rags.